


Everything in its Right Place

by Loz



Category: Life on Mars
Genre: Gene in the future, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-24
Updated: 2007-11-08
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9316934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: Sam/Gene slash. Title from the song by Radiohead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sam/Gene slash. Title from the song by Radiohead.

They’ve been through this, of course, loads of times. Gene thinks that if he has to tell the nancy-boy again, he might just explode in a ball of something large and deadly. He whacks him once, twice; third time's the charm – right in the knackers, to show him who’s boss – no, who’s _The Guv_. And he lets him go limp in his arms and drops him.

That’s when the regret sets in. Not much, but enough. He’s gone too far this time. Sam’s coughing, wheezing, eyes shut and body racking. Gene bends forward to help him up and Sam, the little git, grabs hold of his hair, drags him down to the asphalt and kicks.

“Thought you were above violence?” Gene shouts, just getting the words out.

“Never said that. Just said there’re other ways, Guv,” Sam replies and there’s traces of amusement and anger enmeshed with the monotone.

Sam stops and Gene rears back up, spitting to the side. There’s a smile playing on Sam’s lips and Gene’s already planning on smacking him when a song playing on a radio and a squeal of car brakes arrest his attention and he turns around to see… blackness.

*

“Why’s it feel like I’ve a horde of go-go dancers tramping about my insides?” Gene asks. He doesn’t know who he’s asking, but there’s a body next to his, so someone’s there, it’s not just him.

“Dunno,” Sam’s voice retorts. He sounds like shit, deep and croaky. “But I think I’ve the music they’re dancing to pounding in my brain.”

Gene opens his eyes. He’s expecting blue sky, since it was an unseasonably bright Autumn day last time he’d looked. But he sees grey clouds instead. He frowns and turns to Sam, who’s fixated on something across the road. His face has gone the opposite of pitch, as white as white can be and he’s breathing strangely, hardly breathing at all, really, just a shallow gasp here and there.

“What’s up, will-o'-the-wisp, seen a ghost?”

“No,” Sam says, flatly. “This can’t be happening.”

“Oh God, it’s another one of your bloody attacks again, in’t it? Sam, your episodes are far from charmingly endearing. If you keep going on, I might have to tell the men in white about them and then I’d be down a DI.”

“Gene – _look._ ”

Gene looks and sees a car like none he’s ever seen before. It’s the ugliest pile of metal ever to grace Manchester, he reckons, uglier than his sister-in-law and Esther Rantzen combined. At least, he thinks it’s a car. It looks more like a military vehicle. It’s like someone asked a four year old to make a mould and then shoved clay into it – but the mould was actually a die set and the clay some tin, some alumnium; Gene has a couple of moments to himself where he realises he doesn’t know what cars consist of.

He shrugs, looks back at Sam and notices that he’s wearing different clothes – a blue suit and tie instead of fitted leather. This leads him to look down at himself and there he is, bedecked in a foreign fashion - tight blue denim and light green shirt, no camel-hair in sight. And they’re in a mostly empty carpark, buildings far away.

“Right, what’ve you been doing, Tyler? Is this an early birthday joke? Because I’m the only one with the authority to piss about with elaborate schemes dedicated to humiliation.”

“It’s not me. At least, I don’t think it’s me. I mean, I haven’t done anything, but… Gene – we’re not in 1973 anymore.”

Gene snorts. “Right’n, click your heels together three times and we’ll be set.”

“I’m serious. Come on, get up.”

Sam stands himself and grabs Gene’s arm, dragging him off the damp asphalt – why’s it damp? It wasn’t damp before – and propels him forward. Gene’s about to swivel and punch him one, but he hears music. It’s the same music he heard before… before what, exactly? All he remembers is the music, a screeching noise and… and there’s something else, but he can’t muddle through the grey to get to it. Sam’s walking towards the car like he’s in a trance, sleep-walking. He looks in at the window and, if it’s possible, gets paler.

Gene follows, might as well, and the inside of the heap of junk’s as unsightly as the outside. The set designer for one of those ridiculous sci-fi shows, Star Trek or Lost in Space, must have had a field day. Gene has the desperate urge for a fag, but there’s nothing in his pockets, he’s already checked.

“The game’s up. You’ve done a good job, but I’m not buying it.”

Sam’s eyes go wide and wild. He claws at Gene’s arm. “I haven’t _done_ anything.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“I’m home.”

“We’re in Hyde?”

“No, Gene. I’m _home_. 2006.”

“Okay then. You stay here, I’ll get the loony bin.”

Gene rolls his eyes and puffs out his cheeks. And that’s when it starts to rain, pelting down like cats and rats.

“Get in the car,” Sam orders quickly. He’s acquired a key from somewhere and is shoving it in the lock.

Gene braces his shoulders and pushes his chin up. “Why?”

“Do you want to die of hypothermia? I’d be only too happy to leave you out here ‘til you’re blue.”

Gene acquiesces, grumbling all the while. The car seat is surprisingly comfortable, but he hates being on the passenger side and is soon scrabbling for the key.

“Just hand it over, Tyler.”

Sam frowns, shakes his head and pushes the arm with the keys out of the open window, not seeming to mind the drizzle that soaks his sleeve and flies in through the gap.

“There is no way in hell I’m letting you loose on my streets.”

“Your streets?”

“Yeah. 1973 Manchester’s yours. 2006 Manchester’s mine.”

“I’m still not convinced this is 2006.”

“You soon will be.”

Sam brings his arm back in and like that, just like that, starts the car and drives them to the edge of the car park, towards a big metal fence.

He lowers his head and looks at Gene. “Can you get out and see if you can move it to the side?”

“You do it,” Gene replies obstinately.

“Thanks for your co-operation.”

“Why should it be me?”

“Because I asked you.”

“Since when do I ever do anything you ask?”

“Brilliant point. Shows the strength of your character, that.”

Gene watches as Sam climbs out of the vehicle and begins pushing at the fence. He’s trying to remain calm and collected, trying to convince himself that this is all part of the practical joke, the plan – make him crack and laugh uproariously before he caves their heads in. But he’s got a terrible tingling in his tummy button that suggests he’s fooling himself. Sam may be a lot of things, but a clown isn’t one of them. In fact, Sam’s singularly without humour most of the night and day – Gene has first hand experience of just how unfunny Sam is – and even if he were one to faff about, where’d he get the materials and cash for this kind of set up?

All that talk of time travel has been summarily ignored because it’s madness. And as if to spite him, as if to stamp on his toys and fiddle his bets, it’s decided to get its own back and send him to a new place, what appears to be a new land entirely and worse yet, stuck with Sam. Sam, who has an unfortunate habit of always thinking he’s right. And Sam, who has an unfortunate habit of often being so.

*

“And this is my kitchen,” Sam finishes with an outstretched arm and uncharacteristically bright grin.

Gene looks from one stainless steel contraption, to another glass surface and leans against the wall. “Much like your personality.”

“Really? How?”

“Clean, shiny, practical, but totally devoid of any real life or experience.”

Sam’s grin disappears in a second. He draws himself up and exits the room, leaving Gene alone with the clinical scent of disinfectant and fairy liquid. Gene wanders back into the living room that is also clean, shiny and practical; although it does possess some moderate charms – a giant television, for one. An expensive well-stocked bar (‘for guests’, Sam had said), for another. And some photographs that suggest that Sam does, occasionally, go out.

“You’re not gonna be a sissy and sulk, are you? There’s only so much one man can take in a day. I’ve just been told that I’ve somehow, magically, been transported thirty-three years in the future. That my DI, is not, actually, totally tossed off in the brain. That Manchester’s to become this… this… this cardboard cutout of a city that’s nothing like I’ve worked for. The last thing – the very last thing - I need, is my partner crying into his pillow.”

“I’m not your partner and when have I ever cried into my pillow? When have you ever seen me with my pillow?”

“The countless times I’ve burst in on you. And other times besides.”

“Okay, fine. One point to you.” Sam crosses his arms, sitting on the back of his settee.

“Ten points,” Gene says. He doesn’t know why. “I’m not gonna apologise.”

Sam raises his head, obviously surprised that Gene’s even mentioned it. “Well, did you mean it?”

“Course I meant it,” Gene snaps waspishly. “I haven’t had a smoke going on an hour.” His brows come down and he doesn’t understand why the tremor of a pout along Sam’s lower lip is making him want to say things he’d ordinarily not say. “You’re more than that,” he finally says. “You know it, you don’t need me to tell you.”

Sam seems to understand that that’s the closest to a ‘sorry’ he’ll get. He gets up and walks over, putting a hand on Gene’s shoulder, all Dorothy-like. “Thank you.”

Gene glances at Sam’s hand and is aware of it resting there, devilishly hot and heavy. He’s reminded of what they’d been arguing about in the first place and he pushes his lips forward, not quite an invitation, but enough that Sam would pick up on the signal.

“Nice settee you’ve got here,” Gene says, eyes glittering.

Sam almost smiles. “I have a king sized bed too.”

The telephone rings. Typical. Absolutely bloody typical, just as they were coming to some sort of understanding, the damn thing goes off, blowing it. It looks more walky talky than phone, small and black. It doesn’t even have a cable. Sam answers, his voice becoming higher with every sentence.

“Maya? You’re okay?”

“What about Kramer?”

“Not Kramer? The Raimes case.”

“I see.”

“Right now? I, er, I have a friend with me.”

“Gene Hunt. He’s a DCI.”

“From… Hyde.”

“Okay, we’ll get over there. Maya, it’s so good to hear your voice.”

“No, I haven’t fallen down any stairs recently. See you soon.”

Sam puts the phone back in its plastic holder and raises his eyebrows at Gene. “That was Maya.”

“Oh really, brainiac? I thought it were Sid James. Who’s Maya?”

“My ex-girlfriend.”

“The Paki?”

As soon as Gene says it, he knows he shouldn’t have, because Sam’s close and obviously these days inclined to punch when he’s angry.

“What’ve I said about using those kinds of derogatory terms?”

Gene catches his breath. “Don’t know. I space out once you’ve been rambling on for half a minute.”

“Don’t.” Sam narrows his eyes. “Come on, we have to go.”

“Where?”

“The station. They’ve fished a body out of the canal. Gene, you finally get to see all those procedures and techniques I’ve been raving on about for months on end.”

“Bloody hell, do I have to?”

*

The traffic is full of ugly hunks of metal. Sam’s not the only one with no taste. He sees a Ford Cortina he recognises, once, but it’s a rust bucket, nothing like his glorious bronze beast. He hates that Sam’s the one driving. He hates that he’s here at all. He hates that he was halfway to slipping Sam one before they were called away. He puts his hand on Sam’s thigh, but Sam pushes it off, glaring at him in warning.

“Concentrate on the matter in hand,” Sam hisses.

“Can’t, don’t have any matter in hand,” Gene replies. He looks about him at Sam’s Manchester and scowls. Shop fronts display items he’d never want and most people’d never need. There’re square tall buildings and lots of glass, people standing on the street talking – not to each other, to little devices (‘mobile phones’, Sam had said.) And everything’s blue and grey and boring. Lifeless, like Sam’s flat. Like Sam can be when he’s not snapped to attention, fighting or fumbling.

They drive by a shop and either Sam’s sick of Gene’s tapping against the dashboard, or he’s come out in sympathy, or he has his own nicotine addiction, but he quickly turns round, parks, dashes in, dashes out and drops a packet of Marlboro and a box of matches in Gene’s lap. For a brief but powerful second, Gene admits to himself that he loves Sam. He really, truly loves him. He takes a cigarette out, lights it with relish and lifts it to his lips. The first intake is heady bliss, slightly dizzying and tastes not right, but good. Very good.

“Happy now?”

“Ecstatic, Sammy-boy. Gonna let me drive now?”

“Not on your life.”

Sam continues driving again and Gene gets out the bottle of whisky he pilfered from Sam’s wooden cabinet, still sealed.

Sam looks over momentarily, stopped at the lights. “Where the hell’d you get that?”

“Your place,” Gene answers, starting to unscrew the top.

“Oh. Right. You can’t drink it.”

“Bloody well can. And will. Don’t try and stop me.”

“Jesus, Gene. What kind of man are you? Can’t go longer than an hour without a fag and swig.”

“Least I don’t have a stick up my arse.”

“Last I checked, you were hoping to be the one to…”

Gene grabs hold of the wheel. “Watch out for that old bat, you almost knocked her flying.”

He frowns. That’s familiar. Now, why is that ringing little bells?

“I was nowhere near that elderly female citizen,” Sam says caustically.

Gene rolls his head back and gazes at the inside of the car roof, before opening the top of the scotch and taking a gulp. He smacks his lips appreciatively. This tastes different too, but not as different, in fact, it tastes better than most he sucks down every day. He has a gander at the bottle – oh yes, it’s the expensive kind; a single malt, not a blended whisky.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna explain that my DCI friend is cut.”

“You won’t have to, I won’t be, will I? I’ve the constitution of a bull, me.”

“And the brains to match.”

“Oi, I didn’t ask to be put on this little adventure with you. I’d sooner you’d’ve left me with your soft porn mags in your flat, but you insisted, didn’tcha?”

“I told you before, it’s _SFX_ , not _SEX_.” Sam pulls into the car park and nods at the corrugated concrete monstrosity. “We’re here.”

“Really, Doris? I’d no clue. Could this possibly be the Police Station?”

“Oh, just once, Gene…”

“What?” Gene asks, getting out of the car at the same time as Sam, watching as the lock moves without him touching it.

“Shut it.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Sam’s expression has gone from mild annoyance to blind panic within three seconds flat. He’s doing that thing he does when nervous, rubbing down his jacket and buttoning it up. There are no outer pockets for him to place his hands into, so he fidgets. Gene almost wants to take his hand and hold it, squeeze it, tell him to get a grip, but he doesn’t, because that’d be too girly and he’s already done a hundred things with Sam that he considers on the verge.

He starts walking, following Sam. He doesn’t know why, but he’s always expected the force to shift their base of operations. His station seems ill-quipped to deal with the kinds of crime Sam’s told him about in countless speeches. He’s always assumed that there was another building somewhere – like those he’d seen on their journey here – big and glass and impersonal. But maybe his station is impersonal and he just never noticed, made it his own space, a place of comfort and familiarity, a place for his team.

“We are going back, aren’t we?” he asks. He sounds shakier than he meant to.

Sam glances at him. “Going back where?”

“Home.”

Sam swallows, looks at the station with a tense jerk and then back at Gene. He’s scared and he’s annoyed and he’s trying to be consoling, Gene can see it all.

“I don’t know.”

*

She’s beautiful, he’s not too proud to admit that. He can see what Sam saw in her. Hell, he’s finding it hard to understand why they’d ever split. They look the perfect couple, two business suits, two professional approaches, two good looking thirty-somethings. Almost makes him feel inadequate, but not quite.

He doesn’t feel any jealousy when she places a hand on Sam’s arm, being all sweet and tender. Okay, maybe a little. But he’s more concerned about Sam, who’s been asking questions surreptitiously, trying to gain information on what’s happened. He’s grown increasingly unstable, like he’s on the edge of one of his ‘moments’ and that’s about up there with interrogation on where Gene’s from on the list of things they really don’t need.

“The pathologist estimates time of death as between 2 am and 4 am,” Maya says.

“How’d he narrow it down so much, love?”

“ _She_ narrowed it down by checking core body temperature and examining the wristwatch that had stopped.”

Sam interjects. “When was the body found?”

“A few minutes before I called.”

Gene’s shocked. “And it were done in that amount of time?”

“It would have been sooner, but Sandra was on her lunch break.”

Gene doesn’t say anything about her getting the wrong end of the stick. Instead he does what he does best - exacerbate the situation. “Where I’m from, we don’t take lunch breaks.”

“Hyde?”

“Yeah. Hyde.”

“Well then, you must be a bunch of robots.”

“He’s only joking,” Sam says. “Of course they have lunch. Sandra’s done a great job.”

“Ever the diplomat,” Maya returns. She smiles at Sam with a warmth that’s more than friendly. He smiles back. Inadequate isn’t the word for Gene. Invisible’s more like it.

“What do you want us to do then?” Gene asks.

“Well, Sam has to lead the investigation, naturally.” Maya stares at Gene, flummoxed.

“I always forget he’s DCI. Do you know, I’ve known him since he were just Detective Inspector? Seems like only six hours ago.”

“I…” Maya starts. She pauses and brief emotion sweeps across her face; confusion, disappointment. “How come I’ve not heard of you before, DCI Hunt?”

“I’m his secret weapon. Brings me out when he needs the big guns, ain’t that right, Sammy-boy?”

“If by ‘big guns’, you mean ‘a right mouthy bastard’, then yeah, that’d be dead on,” Sam says. He’s shooting daggers at Gene, who picks them up and throws them back with a little more force.

“Here’s the address for co-ordinating the collection of evidence at the victim’s house.” Maya hands over a notepad, looking from one man to the other. “I’ll go and interview the man who saw the body.”

“You don’t know that it is a victim yet, do you?”

“Didn’t I say? Three bullet wounds, lower abdomen.”

Sam double-takes, exasperated. But he sounds fond. “Your communication skills, sometimes, Maya...”

“What do you expect? I had you as my teacher.”

“Better get going, hadn’t we?” Gene asks. He’s trying not to say or do anything that’ll come across as whiny, because Sam’d be over the moon. If he ever noticed.

“I’ll give you a call,” Sam says to Maya, touching her hand. She picks up a folder and pen and stands there, acknowledging Gene’s goodbye salute. And they’re off, back into Sam’s load of bollocks and travelling to Drake Road.

Gene fixes his eyes on some point in the distance, finally letting himself wonder how Sam managed it. Things look the same, but they’re not. Or they look different and they’re not. Flirting, for instance. It’s all veiled insinuations with the subtlety of a wrecking ball. Whatever happened to a simple, plain as day pinch? More honest, that. Less painful in most ways too. Sam starts babbling, but Gene ignores him. It’s only when Sam punches his arm that Gene pays attention.

“Don’t tell me. This is you being the jealous type, in’t it?” Sam asks. He turns the car around a corner.

“I’m not one for jealousy,” Gene answers.

“Yes you are. You go green if you see someone eating the last pink wafer. And whilst it suits you beautifully, it’s not all that conducive to policework.”

“All right then, I’m pissed off,” Gene admits, more than he’d usually want to. “You practically had your hands inside downstairs there.”

“You’re not some limerent object, Gene.”

“What on God’s green earth are you on about?”

Sam presses his lips tightly together and moves his hand in exaggeration. “This isn’t just a crush.”

“You know, I could almost have sworn I stopped going to school thirty years ago… wait… wait, yeah, I’m pretty bloody sure.”

“The point is –”

Gene interjects. “You have one?”

Sam rolls his eyes, not focussing on the road for a few perilous seconds. “The point is that you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“Who said I was worried? I was angry, if anything, not worried. I give as good I get and don’t you forget it.”

“It’s just, if you thought that now I was around Maya again…”

Gene bites back, impatient. “Your wings are showing.”

“My angelic nature’s that obvious?”

“Your fairy wings.”

“Really, now? And where do you keep yours?” Sam swerves the car.

“Just what are you implying?”

Sam laughs. There’s a touch of bitterness. “I don’t have to imply, do I? I’ve had your cock up my arse enough times to know that by your standards you’re the king of the bloody fairies.”

“The operative word in that sentence there was ‘King’, meaning in charge, meaning the one with the power, meaning I’m gonna punch your sodding lights out if you ever say anything like that to me again.”

Sam appears to understand that the threat is real, because he changes tack as he changes lanes. “I’m more worried about what we’re doing here – about the fact that time’s seemed to have passed without me - than, you know, anything else.”

“You worry too much. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? The future, all laid out for you.”

“Not like this, I haven’t.”

“Like what, then?”

“To be honest, lately, I haven’t given it much thought.”

Sam returns his attention to the road, the woman honking her horn at them to go through the amber light, and navigation. Gene curses some and thinks about Sam’s attempt at reassurance, telling himself he doesn’t need it, but knowing that he’s just pansy enough that it means something.

*

There are men in white suits, with masks and plastic bags – more sci-fi – Gene’s beginning to realise why he’d never had much interest in any other genre than the noble Western.

“What’s with the get-up?” Sam asks and Gene is vaguely surprised that this is apparently going against the grain.

“It’s precaution,” is the muffled reply.

“Against what?” Sam scoffs. He raises his eyebrows at Gene, who shrugs back. Sam stares at Gene for a while, as if expecting him to take charge, but despite given the opportunity, Gene stays rooted to the spot. He tells himself it’s not nerves, it’s just common sense. This is Sam’s element; clinical, exact. He’s better at the more important stuff; getting confessions and organising piss ups in breweries.

The white figure in front of them answers Sam’s question. “We don’t want to contaminate the scene. There’s a lot of blood.”

“Alright then.”

Sam looks nonplussed. He dithers, searching in his jacket for something. When he finally extracts his notepad, Gene rolls his eyes. Sam starts noting down all of the evidence bags, various movements of forensics and items that catch his eye.

They spend an hour in this way. Gene doesn’t quite see the point. Sam’s distracted by fiddling with annoyances of minor importance when he should be discerning what happened. It doesn’t really matter whether the label on that bag is correctly formatted, but this is what Sam concentrates on, slipping into irritability and banal anal-retentiveness with terrifying ease. Gene attempts to help, but Sam glares at him mistrustfully, ignoring his advice.

So this is how they solve crime in the 21st century. If they solve crime at all. Somehow, Gene isn’t overawed and ecstatic. He does, however, feel a deep sense of gratification that Sam appears to be similarly unimpressed.

They’re given some suits and allowed to go in. The place is covered in slick, deep red. It’s nauseating even for Gene, who’s seen more than his fair share of horror.

“This can’t all be the victim’s, surely?” Sam says, expression on the edge of disturbed.

“We won’t know until we’ve run some tests.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Gene slash. Title from the song by Radiohead.

Tests. It’s always tests. Examinations. Analysis. But they don’t actually provide much, in the long run. Gene has more than half a mind that this job would be ten times easier if they just gave up on words, numbers and facts and dealt only with feelings and instincts. But Sam says it has to be both --- and there’s something about that that pleases Gene, like he has, actually, got through to Sam, because he’s fairly sure once upon a time Sam would have said the tests were the be-all and end-all.

Sam sits at his table tapping out a rhythm. They’re waiting for a list of Marc Quinton’s friends and acquaintances they can go interview. They’re also waiting to find out about that blood at Quinton’s house. And they’re waiting to hear the results of Maya’s ‘discourse’ with James Grantham. Meanwhile, Sam’s tapping at that bastard keyboard and filling out forms, and Gene’s looking around the office in disinterest. It’s grey and light, the air disgustingly clear and smelling faintly of pine. The people around him are all well-kempt, talking on telephones, looking at their screens (computers, Sam had said, a little too joyously.) If they weren’t surreptitiously glancing at him every four seconds, he’d say they were more business-like than he’d expect those in the force to be, but copper curiosity was getting the better of them.

Sam knows these people, has worked with these people, but he treats them with cool regard. There are no nicknames, or terms of affection. There are orders, short conferences, to get Sam ‘up to speed’. Sam doesn’t act like he’s missed his team and that’s all wrong. They’re _his_. He should be glad to see them again, even if he’s none too pleased with the circumstance. Sam’s confusion on Gene’s acceptance is making glaring sense against bright lights and metallic surfaces.

“Sorry, did you want a go?” Sam asks absent-mindedly, turning to look at Gene.

Gene raises his eyebrows. “Will you be really offended if I say no?”

“Mortified.”

“No.” Gene cracks his knuckles one by one, flicking his gaze over Sam’s expression, which is a mixture of resignation and forced coercion.

“I could get you up to speed with modern politics.”

“I don’t give a toss.”

“Movie stars?”

“Not interested.”

Sam frowns. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m leaving you in the lurch.”

Gene is surprised the bitterness in his words is real. “I’ve never seen you so considerate. Slotting back into your old life has brought you newfound insight?”

Maya steps forward at that moment, placing a manicured hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam looks at it nervously, but not for the reasons Gene would usually assume. He still seems on edge, as if everything he’s doing, the routine, is his only grounding. He’s not doing this because he wants to, he’s doing it because he thinks he has to. Gene wants to know where Sam got that notion from, but he has a horrible feeling he already knows the answer.

“Not much could be gained from him,” Maya says, despondent. “Grantham’s not the world’s most observant man.”

“Keep tabs on him, but I doubt he’s got anything to do with it,” Sam replies, automatically.

Maya hands out a clipboard. “All of Quinton’s contacts we could find. Did you want me to come with you?”

“How about we split up?” Sam says, “you take this page, we’ll, uh, take this one?” The paper bends in half in Sam’s hand, pathetic.

Maya blinks once, twice, does little to cover up that she’s staring at Gene. “Okay.”

From waiting, to action. Gene stands and crosses the floor of the office before Sam has a chance to separate the pages from the clipboard.

*

Sam drives like an old biddy, all soft turns and moderate speed. Gene’s almost desperate to push him out of the seat, but he lights a Sam-bought cigarette instead. As he stares at the streets of New Manchester, as he has internally termed it, Gene is forcefully reminded that everything he loves about Old Manchester has fled or been banished; daggy shop fronts, uneven pavements and real character. The sound that blares out of buildings now is worse than the sound of his time, and worse again the sound of his generation.

“Do you think we have to solve this crime?” he asks.

“Sorry?”

“To get back. D’you think we just have to figure out how and why this bloke carked it and then we’ll be whisked once more to 1973?”

“That’s what I’d hope would occur with the Susie Tripper case. That I’d come back here if I solved it there. But that didn’t happen, did it?”

“So you’re saying no, then.”

“I’m not --- I don’t know, do I? I’ve no more idea what the hell’s going on than you do!” Sam’s voice has risen in pitch, until he sounds like a seven year old stuffed with helium. His eyes are bugging out of their sockets and the angles of his cheekbones look even more severe than normal.

“Alright, keep your shirt on,” Gene remarks. Sam doesn’t immediately respond. Actually, maybe that’s what Sam needs to get him back on balance. Gene’s mind quickly wanders to images of Sam, shirtless, Gene pressing up tight, his thigh between his legs---

“You have a one track mind,” Sam says and Gene stares at him incredulously, unaware that Sam could list ‘mind-reading’ among his many attributes. Sam grins, looking more like himself on a good day. “Hah! I knew it.” Sam shakes his head. “You’re like… I don’t know what you’re like. One minute you’re worrying we may never get back to 1973 and the next you’re thinking about sex.”

“Maybe if you had more of my personality you wouldn’t always be so strung out and I’d not have to beat some form of humanity into you.”

They pull up outside the first address. Quinton’s next of kin, an older sister. This is the worst part of the job; above paperwork, dealing with the press, and listening to Sam’s tirades on Gene’s inability to read concept maps. The car doors bang in unison and they sidle up to the blistering red front of Shania Quinton’s house.

“Shouldn’t this have been done before?” Gene asks out of the corner of his mouth. Sam glares at him.

The door opens, an attractive brunette stands looking at them in curiosity. She looks a little like the bird down at Gene’s local chippy and he stares appreciatively at her tits. Sam may be his right-hand man, but that hasn’t stopped his left hand from reaching for a nice bit of skirt.

“Shania Quinton? I’m afraid we have some bad news.” Sam says, using consoling eyes and gestures.

“Your brother’s now living-impaired,” Gene finishes.

Shania opens her eyes wider and darts her head forward. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, Ms Quinton, can we go inside so that I can talk to you about this in an appropriate manner?” Sam looks ready to shoot Gene, vein in his forehead throbbing a waltz.

“What? I was politically correct,” Gene whispers, shuffling into the house behind Shania and Sam. “I could’ve said he’d kicked the bucket, was sleeping with the fishes, or pushing up the daisies, but no, I made it all pretty-like.”

Shania’s living room is strangely familiar in russets and autumnal colours less suited to the world outside and more to the world inside Gene’s mind.

“Marc’s dead then?” Shania calls from the kitchen, after offering them tea and setting about making it.

“If you say ‘as a doorknob’, I will fucking kill you,” Sam quietly intones as Gene opens his mouth.

“Yeah, sorry about that, love.”

“He was an arsehole, my brother,” Shania says as she sets the cups down. “Complete fuckwit. Owed me thousands and showed no signs of ever giving it back. I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but he really was a giant dick. After the parents died, he just got worse.”

Gene is shocked by her language. Sam thought he was crude, but she’d make millions on the oil market.

Sam takes a sip of tea. “You weren’t close, I take it?”

“Not even when we were kids.” Shania tips her head back and reminisces. “He used to steal my toys.”

“He was murdered,” Gene says forthrightly. “So far, you’re sounding like a suspect. Can you tell us where you were between between 2 am and 4 am this morning?”

“Sleeping. In my bed. In this house. If I’d’ve killed him, I’d be dancing on his broken bones and would willingly give myself up, just for the glory. But I didn’t. Wish I had. Never had the guts.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“Art dealer, if you could call it that. Small-time fencing, I’d say. Had a mock-gallery, just off George Street. Don’t think he ever dealt anything.”

Sam bites into the biscuit he’s nursing between tense fingers. “And could you give us a list of people who might hold a grudge against him?”

“Only as long as my arm. You got a couple of hours?”

They sit and wait as Shania scrounges around for paper and a pen, drawing up their steadily increasing list of potential suspects. Sam asks pointed questions about Marc’s business and life affairs, receiving a plethora of negative responses, until the picture of Marc is equal to a picture of such a miserable scroat that Gene’s tempted to desecrate the corpse. Reminding Shania not to go travelling, they leave the house and set off once more in Sam’s hunk of junk.

“She was delightful. Are they all that charming?”

“Yeah, you’re right in your element.”

*

The next fifteen interviews paint the same portrait, until Gene thinks he’s heard more insults than a kid with a wonky eye and a limp. Sam calls Maya to check that the names given to them by Shania are ones they already have addresses for, and they are, for the most part, apart from one that sends them to an estate. A name that wasn’t on either of their lists – so, a new acquaintance, or the lead suspect?

What once was gleaming concrete is now cracked and muddied. Gene hadn’t liked these atrocities when they were newly built, and he sure as hell doesn’t like them now.

“It’s disgusting,” Sam says, nodding, “that people are forced to live in scum like this.”

“The reality is, these places attract more scum. Filth begets filth.”

“Reality’s just a state of mind,” Sam replies, obliquely.

“Maybe in your world, Sammy-boy, but in mine, it’s rather more serious.”

The door to the flat is ajar. Sam pulls a baton out of nowhere and starts edging down the hallway, his head turning from side to side. “Clear,” he calls, after inspecting the four rooms that comprise a home. As dark and grimy as it is, the place is actually considerably nicer than Sam’s own abode in 1973, with new carpetting and decent furniture.

Gene surveys the kitchenette. There’s a steaming cup of tea on the counter, a wedge of lemon dangling precariously on the side.

“Hasn’t been for long,” he calls back. “Now, either Rory Davies has seen us coming and pissed off, or he’s gone for some sugar next door. How’s about you go down, see if you can see him anywhere, and I’ll stay here in case of his return?”

Sam quirks an eyebrow. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

“I’m a grown man, Tyler! Much as I like sucking on your teats, you’re not my wet-nurse.”

Sam scrunches up his nose and seems to contemplate this. His mouth twists in a cruel zig-zag and eventually he hunches his shoulders, dives into his pocket and pulls out his little black box.

“There’s a payphone down there. Take this, so I can call you if I see him coming your way.”

Gene takes the ‘mobile phone’ and stares at it assessingly.

“Just press this button, put the phone up to your ear, and then wait for me to say hello, got that?” Sam continues.

“So I press this button, here?” Gene asks, placing his finger against the green receiver Sam has indicated.

“Yes,” Sam replies, stepping towards the door.

“Just this one, here?”

Sam steps back, impatient. “Yes.”

“Just get my little finger and press it against this little green button?” Gene reiterates. There’s innocence in his eyes, but a smirk on his lips.

“Stop being a prick,” Sam says, moving away again.

“Can’t, it’s second nature.”

“First,” Sam retorts from beyond the doorframe.

Gene throws the mobile phone into the air and catches it with ease whilst sitting down on one of Davies’ plush grey armchairs. As he sits he thinks about insanity and whether it’s taken over his body. Part of him wants to say that this is all a dream, but despite the fact Sam has spent the better part of the last month telling Gene about this magical future he claims to be from, Gene doesn’t think he’s had enough detail to construct this – the information age, lacking almost everything he knows and loves.

When Sam first tried to explain, Gene’s brain told him to get the men in white coats, but his gut told him to believe the earnest, pleading eyes. It was after their first proper shag, a romantic affair, up against the garish flowers of Sam’s wall. Gene figured he’d come this far, what harm was another step?

He’s stepped so far, he’s not sure he knows who he is anymore. And most of the time, that doesn’t really bother him, because it’s not like he was overly happy with who he’d become. But when he’s prone to inward gazing – and that occurs far more often than he’d like – he wonders about the intelligence of giving Sam a little piece of himself.

The phone starts to buzz in his hand, an oddly arousing sensation. He opens it and the screen displays two words, “Battery Flat”, before it flickers to black.

“Bloody useless,” Gene mutters.

Still, he knows why it would be ringing, so he readies himself for Davies, hiding behind the door. After a few moments, a figure blocks the light from the doorway and sails into the room. Rory Davies is tall, taller than a man has any right to be, and he leans on a tilt. Gene sets his shoulders and says his name, clear as day. Davies spins round and looks at Gene in combined horror and anger.

“What do you want?”

“I wanna ask you a couple of questions about Marc Quinton, Rory.”

“Who?”

“You know who I mean.” Gene advances, not letting a little thing like five inches put him off.

“Who are you that’s asking?”

“DCI Hunt.”

Davies’ cheeks puff out and he bares his teeth. “I’m not talking to a pig.”

“Oh, you will.” Gene feels a surge rush through him – power and revulsion. “Tell me everything you can about Marc Quinton and that’ll be that. Don’t tell me, and I’ll have your head bent so far back, you’ll spend the rest of your life counting flies on the ceiling.”

Davies rolls his eyes. “Tough man, eh? Been watching one too many gangster flicks?”

Gene pretends to laugh, balls his fingers into a fist and hits Davies straight in the gut. Davies bends over and Gene cracks his head into his knee. He leans down and yells in his ear, “I want some information and I want it now.”

“Gene – no!” Sam’s voice yells. He runs into the room and draws his face into a tight mask when he sees he’s been too late. Davies is quietly moaning, blood dripping from his nose. Sam fixes Gene with an accusatory glare as Gene lets Davies go with a thump. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

“I went to, but the battery was flat.”

“What do you mean, the battery was flat?”

“I don’t sodding know, do I? Only, I flipped it open, like you so judiciously showed me, and there was that little tidbit of information, glinting out from the screen – Battery Flat.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake…”

“Temper, temper, Sammy-boy.”

Contempt bubbles in Sam’s voice. “What use is technology if it doesn’t fucking work?”

“You tell me,” Gene replies, finding himself smiling, cruel humour twisting up to clamp around his heart. Sam’s angrier than he should be for such a minor mishap; it’s almost as if he’s been betrayed.

“I was gonna remind you not to use force.” Sam groans, bringing his hands to his forehead. “I don’t know what we’re gonna say to Maya.”

“Nothing?”

“We’ll have to say something! We could get sued. Do you not get that? None of our charges against Davies will stick – even if he’s guilty as sin. Just how many, ‘where I come from’ speeches have you glossed over in our time together, Gene?”

“All of them, if I’ve been lucky.”

“Shit. You’re incorrigible.”

Gene rocks back on his heels - he hates these shoes - and pierces Sam with his own, defensive, glare. “He’s an arsewipe, he had it coming.”

“Maybe, but not like that. Never like that.”

“Back home like that.”

“No, that’s what I’ve been saying. You shouldn’t be punching suspects around in 1973, either.”

“But I do. And it works.”

“Not always. I bring your attention to one Graham Bathurst, wrongly accused of murder, mostly because you used your fists, when you should’ve been using your brains.” Sam points his fingers by his temples, scowling as he does so.

“And I bring your attention to Kim Trent, who, without being punched by me, would have lodged a bullet in your pretty little head. My methods get results.”

“That’s a completely different situation and you know it.”

“You’re fussing over nothing.”

Davies moans louder and for a second it almost looks like Sam’s going to kick him, but he hauls him up instead.

*

Sam is technically not accountable to Maya, but he acts like he is, and she perpetuates the notion. Gene sits out of sight, sipping on his procured whisky, listening to their discussion.

“This is a disaster,” Maya says, and Gene can imagine her brown eyes glittering with anger. “When we were together, you wrote entire odes to the extinction of police brutality, and now you’re wandering around with Harry Callahan.”

“It was an honest mistake, Maya.”

“He compromised the investigation, Sam. I know he’s your friend, but…”

Sam sighs. “I know. He’ll stay home this time.”

“When you say ‘home’…”

“I mean mine.”

“Yeah, thought so. I do deserve the rank of Detective Inspector, you know. I wondered when you’d figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

“Your desperation for masculinity.”

Gene almost smiles at the sounds of Sam choking, even whilst he’s itching to punch him. Maya walks away, muttering about measures they’re going to have to take. This is ridiculous. Gene was trying to get them something, anything they could work on. Maya confessed she’d come up empty, and their other interviews hadn’t yielded any results. Gene takes another swig and stands to lean near Sam.

They drive to Sam’s flat in silence. Gene won’t make any excuses for Sam, and he seems too pre-occupied to force conversation. Muted colours whirl by the window, grey, blue, black, and light reflects off glass. When they pull up outside Sam’s flat and he lets them in, Gene contemplates headbutting him into submission. Sam flurries around his flat, getting various things in order and then stands by the door.

“I’ll see you later,” Sam says, hurriedly. “I shouldn’t be more than a couple hours. I’ll keep you posted.”

“I hit a bloke,” Gene responds. “By the way you’re all acting, anyone’d think I’d killed him.”

“Might as well’ve.” Sam balances his weight from foot to foot. “This is usually the part where we kiss.”

“Get stuffed.”

“You can’t be that angry…”

“I am positively incandescent with rage.”

“Oh yeah, I can see it glowing out your arse.” Sam moves forward and wraps his arms around the trunk of Gene’s body, voice muffled as he talks into Gene’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. But you’re safest watching tv. I even set my laptop up for you.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Gene replies honestly.

“Computer. It’s on the coffee table. You can look up porn.”

“Now, why would I want to do that, when I’ve the real thing right here?”

Sam smiles at that, pulling away and waving his hand in a farewell gesture that’s tinged with sorrow.

*

The telephone rings for the fifth time and Gene glares at it. The first time, two hours before, it was some Indian bird trying to sell him a ‘24 month plan’. Gene never did sort out what type of plan it was, but doesn’t feel too disturbed on the matter, as he crashed the receiver down with an echoing bang. The second time was Sam, to inform him that the blood at Quinton’s house was animal blood, not human at all – not a trace of it Quinton’s - and Gene mused over that for a while, before deciding he didn’t give a shit. The third call was Sam’s mother. That was nice and awkward. Gene had to try and explain he was a friend of Sam’s from work, but Ruth Tyler was convinced she recognised his name for a different reason.

This time Gene doesn’t know who it is, as he refuses to answer. He’s having too much fun watching some show about cars, _Cap Gear_ , or some such. One of the hosts is greatly amusing and Gene snorts tea through his nose at his comments. Nice to know that political correctness is shoved to the side every now and then.

He’s thought about leaving the flat hundreds of times, but something holds him back. It’s definitely not loyalty to Sam, so Gene has to admit that it might just be fear. He feels feeble, but it’s a survival instinct pushing to the fore. He spends a great deal of his time wondering what Ray and Chris are up to, how CID is coping without them, but he’s not even sure such a thing is happening.

The door opens half an hour later, Sam easing through the crack with cartons of Chinese takeout. “I called to ask what you wanted for dinner, but you didn’t pick up.”

“You didn’t want me to make it? I could’ve rustled you up a lovely avocado terrine,” Gene says, sarcasm so thick it could block the Blackpool tunnel.

Sam rolls his eyes and starts with the plates. “Anything interesting happen whilst I was gone?”

“Your mother rang.”

Sam stops dead at that. “She… she did?”

“Yeah, wants to know if you’re gonna come to tea Sunday. I said yes, not knowing if we’d still be here or not. Seemed polite.”

“I see.”

Sam sits down and doesn’t speak. Gene watches as his whole body transforms. He seems to crumple in front of Gene – to crease and crinkle, his limbs lying dead by his sides.

“What’s wrong?”

“I… I’m not sure I can ever face my mother again. I turned my back on her,” Sam says, quietly, his shoulders arched and his neck tense. He fixates on the turquoise carpet and tears form in his eyes. “I decided 1973 was my place, and I left her, alone.”

Gene’s staggered by the vehemence of Sam’s reaction to what he thought was simple information. “We all leave our mothers, Sam, has to be done.”

“She was by my bedside.”

Gene frowns. “No she wasn’t. Far as she knows you’ve never been anywhere else.”

“In my head, she was. I’d hear her on the radio, through the tv. I knew it and didn’t try to get back. Until, one day, I just stopped hearing her. And you know what, Gene? I was happy.” Sam brings his fist up to his mouth, biting down on his knuckles, the tears falling thick and fast. Gene’s surprised he doesn’t harbour the urge to punch him.

“You’d leave us, to gain her?”

“I should.”

Gene doesn’t know what to say. Nothing he says will be soothing. It’s best to leave Sam to sort through it on his own, especially as Sam did just the same to him earlier. But he doesn’t leave. He hovers by the sofa and states, in hushed tones, “I’m glad you didn’t. I hope you don’t.”

Sam replies through his sleeve. “Well, it’s not that easy, is it?”

“Nothing ever is.”

It takes a moment, but Gene comes to sit next to Sam, placing his hand gingerly on his far shoulder. It’s awkward and he feels a fool, but Sam leans into the touch, until he’s resting his head against Gene.

“I’m a prick.”

“Yeah, we all know that. Doesn’t make you a bad son.”

Sam swallows and nods his head. “Does.”

“Not as bad as others. I used to stand by and watch my mother get beaten to a pulp. Never did a thing about it. When I finally did throw a punch of my own into the old man’s gut, it wasn’t for her, it was for me.”

“That was different.”

“Of course it was different. Different time, different circumstance, different people. It’s always gonna be different, you pillock.”

“You think I’m a complete baby, don’t you? Oh look, there’s Tyler, crying over his mummy.”

Gene damn near laughs at that. “Does it really matter what I think?”

Sam draws away and holds his gaze.

“You’re a child sometimes, my dearest Samuel,” Gene says. “But you’re not a baby. It’s almost consoling that you’ve the heart.”

Sam scowls, knitting his brows together and curling his upper lip. Gene presses his thumb to those lips and stares intently, trying to say in a look what he’s finding it difficult to say in words.

*

“I should leave you here,” Sam says, doing up his shirt and gazing at Gene from his vantage point above the bed.

“But you won’t.”

“No, against my better judgement, I tried that, and I just can’t stand to.”

“That’s so sweet. No, really, I’m gonna need extra strong toothpaste if my teeth are to get out of this alive.”

“It seems Davies did have something of interest. Maya said it was a possible lead – nothing conclusive.”

Gene gets up on his elbows and presses his cigarette to his lips, speaking through the smoke. “You say that about most things.”

Gene joins Sam in dressing, having only the clothes he woke up in the day before. He announces that he’s ready after a swig of whisky and a full bodied stretch.

Sam still won’t let Gene drive. On the way, he ‘collates’ the facts as they have them. Dead body, crap art dealer, animal blood sprayed about his house, Rory Davies number one suspect, but additional chance with this new bloke, Bruce Charles.

“You know, Maya went to the gallery, but I think we should too,” Sam says, switching on the left indicator and turning with smooth precision.

“Before or after we go talk to this Charles bloke?”

“After, of course.”

“Does your bit know I’m along for the ride?”

“No. Didn’t think it the wisest thing to tell her. It’s horrible. The more questions I ask, the stranger she looks at me. Apparently we split up just after she was kidnapped, even though I saved her life. But how did I do that, when, by that stage, I was with you?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“I’m not. I’m just thinking out loud.”

Gene rolls his shoulders forward. “They could lock you away for that kind of behaviour.”

“For the longest time, all I wanted was to go home. Then I went and fell in love. And now there is no home.”

“Love?”

“With 1973. It’s like a character in its own right. Has its own dialogue and personality.”

“Okay.”

Gene doesn’t say what he’s thinking – that he’d sooner Sam admitted that it might not just be 1973 that has a hold on his heart, but he understands the reluctance. When you put things into words they hold more power and neither of them are ready for that, yet – they’re both too weak.

Sam stops the car and they get out, a single bang clattering against the bricked walls of the establishments near by. They knock on the glass door, Sam flashes his badge, and Bruce Charles goes running out the back.

“The action of an innocent man, d’you think?” Sam asks.

Gene shakes his head, about to go running after, but there’s the roar of an engine and he motions for the car instead.

“When we catch up with this one, you cannot beat him up, understand?”

“What if he’s trying to kill you?”

Sam grimaces. “Well, then you can.”

“Double standards, Sammy-boy.”

They set off at a furious pace. Sam gets Charles’ car into sights and starts calling Maya, but his ability to multi-task is greatly hindered by the high-speed pursuit as they go careening around the corner.

Even Gene wants to tell him to slow down and grabs hold of the handle above his head. The asphalt is a grey streak below them, Charles is a blue dot in front of them, and the traffic lights are a blur of first green, then amber, and finally red. Sam doesn’t pay them any attention. He races on through the first set of lights, yet comes to stop at the next one, when a white mini-van launches itself into the right side of the Jeep.

There’s the scrape of metal against metal, a deafening crunching sound, and Gene swivels to see blood pouring from an open wound in Sam’s head.


	3. Everything in its Right Place, Part 3 (of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam/Gene slash. Title from the song by Radiohead.

Sam can be unbearably pompous. He knows this. Gene is positive Sam enjoys it. It pains Gene to think that he'd prefer Sam at his very most pompous than like this - being carted into an ambulance, eyes closed, blood dripping. The ambulance driver is trained in medicine. She keeps going on about Sam's 'low BP' and mentions that they should get the saline ready. Gene doesn't understand, though he thinks he's heard it all before. Gene stands at a distance, watching, not knowing how to contribute.

"D'you wanna come in the back?"

He doesn't have much choice. Gene climbs up onto the bench next to Sam's stretcher and concentrates on the implements lined against the white metallic wall. He wants to take Sam's hand, but he won't. He might bust something.

"Are you friends?"

"Partners."

Charles got away. He shouldn't be thinking about that, he knows he shouldn't be thinking about that, but it nags at his insides. Charles is out there and he might be the solution to this case and this case might be the solution to his existence and Sam's a complete fucking wanker for not looking where the hell he was going. Trust Sam, the only one in this deal who has any idea how to act in this foreign land, to be the fragile one that drops at the smash of a car. Gene's thick head is fine, a little shaky perhaps, but still screwed on. If Sam doesn't wake up - of course he would - but if he didn't, Gene doesn't have a clue, about anything. Because he can handle two thousand and sodding six, with Sam by his side. Sam's been through this before. And he may not be the most stable of blokes, but he's - well, he is who he is. He's the only person Gene trusts - trusts him more than himself. For a second, maybe four, Gene's not sure he can handle life without Sam. The thought makes his chin feel heavy and he turns to the bloke beside him and says, "Think I may be in shock, after all."

The hospital isn't too far off. Inside there's a lot more waiting. More tests. Examinations. Analysis. He's not in shock in the strictest sense. He doesn't have concussion. Physically, Gene Hunt is fighting fit. But Sam is still unconscious.

"He's not critical," the doctor says, and Gene guesses he should be happy about that. He sits by Sam's side and waits for him to wake up. He'll give him a right talking to when he does.

Sam lies in a God-awful hospital bed, looking thin and frail - not his usual lithe and wiry. He's pale and ashen like last week's porridge and the cut that marks his forehead is nasty, angry looking and is going to have stitches as soon as a nurse has more than a few moments to spare. He has a broken arm that needs to be put in a cast. This place isn't known for its speed.

"This is perfectly natural," another bloke says, wheeling a trolley by, "he'll probably wake up in half an hour, good as new."

That's another thing that worries him. What if the Sam who wakes up isn't his Sam? Chances are, someone's been living his life as he's been learning a lesson or two on how to be a real cop. And Gene's remembered how they got here. The jolt of something similar happening again made the memory resurface. They were mowed down by a car. Is it coincidence? Something more?

It's ridiculous that he's worrying about it at all, but ever since Sam waltzed into his station, life hasn't made much sense. He's hated him for it sometimes, he almost hates him for it now, but his concern clouds his hatred and mostly he just feels lost.

He sees Maya out of the corner of his eye. She stands, seemingly ill at ease, one foot before the other, her elbows sticking out as her hands rest on her hips. She makes a darting movement forward, but stays stationary.

"How is he?"

"Oh, fine. He was dancing a jig three minutes ago," Gene replies automatically.

"What happened?"

"Car crash."

"I know it was a car crash. How?" Maya sounds strained, like she's been crying.

"Well, sweetheart, what happens is one car gets hit by another car and before you know it, you're arse over tit. But I'm sure you've been in that situation before."

"Cut the crap and explain it to me."

Gene hunches his shoulders and brings his head up to look directly at Maya. "We were going after Bruce Charles. We went to his place, Sam flashed his badge, Charles went rushing off and we followed."

"You were together?"

"Yeah, see, thing is, Sam doesn't much like to leave me on my lonesome, doesn't think I'm tough enough to nut it out."

"That's not what he said yesterday. Seems to think you're God's gift to the earth. Wouldn't shut up about you." Maya pauses. Gene expects a torrent of abuse, but gets a faint head-tilt instead. "You're not the kind of bloke I'd expect to be… you know."

"Yeah, well, I didn't expect it either."

"He's always been really secretive. I've never understood why."

"You and me both, glitter teeth."

Maya purses her lips. "Why do you do that? My name's Maya, you know that."

Gene nods at Sam. "I call him Gladys. Majorie. Dorothy. Any girl's name I can think of. Sammy-boy, Deputy Dog, Sherlock, Brainiac…"

"Loving relationship, then."

Gene doesn't know why he isn't shielding himself. There doesn't seem much point. Maya has good instincts, he can see it in her approach. She'd already sussed them out.

"I wanna solve this," Gene says, more bite in his tone than he intends.

"You're not going to stay by Sam's side?"

Gene wavers. He crosses his arms and grunts, low in his throat. "Half an hour. If he's not bright-eyed in half an hour, take me with you to kick in some doors."

"I'm not doing any door-kicking."

"No, that's my job."

*

The plastic cup makes a cracking sound as Gene's hand involuntarily clutches it. It contained tea, but that got slurped up an hour before.

"Could you keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep," Sam mumbles.

Gene leans forward, resting his weight on his toes. "Sam?"

Sam's eyes flicker open and he stares at Gene blearily. "Have we been playing rough and tumble again?"

"No. Motor accident."

"Oh. Great. Can't have too many of those in your lifetime. Shit."

"So you know who I am?"

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "Intimately acquainted. And I do mean that."

Gene can't express the relief and gratitude he feels at this. He's incoherent with it. He sits and watches Sam for a while, cataloguing his features and imagining kissing every square inch. He thinks about batting Sam on the arm, but decides against it. He's made of stiff stuff, Tyler.

"Well, now that you're awake and sentient, I'm off."

"Off? Off where?"

"Off with your exciting ex, to see if I can crush some nuts. Those belonging to Bruce Charles if I'm really lucky."

Sam perks up, colour flooding his face. "You've got to be joking."

"I never joke before beer o'clock."

"Bad idea. Very bad idea. Worst idea you've ever had, Gene."

"That's what you said when I tried to convince you to go to that fancy dress party as Roger Whittaker."

Sam grins, though it looks painful, then his expression becomes sombre and he tries to push himself into an upright position.

"Really, Gene, _terrible_ idea."

"I don't care. I'm going to fix this. I'm gonna sort it out. Meanwhile, you need to rest up." Gene starts to stand and gazes down at Sam with a mixture of affection and determination.

"What's wrong with me?"

"Broken arm, broken head, apart from that, just your inability to see the big picture, your insistence on filing and your unwillingness to call me Gene Genie."

Sam groans and speaks in a harsh whisper. "If I call you Gene Genie, right now, if I scream it out next time we shag, will you, for the love of God, not go gallivanting off by yourself?"

Gene fidgets with his hands, digging them into his pockets, as if he's wanting to light a cigarette, but he's already been told off twice for trying to smoke inside and he only has two left.

"Not gonna be by myself. I'm gonna be with Maya."

As if on cue, Maya appears, hovering at the end of Sam's bed.

"You're awake!" she says happily. She bends down and kisses Sam lightly on the cheek. Gene sees a flash of fear and confusion cross Sam's face.

"Maya," Sam pleads.

She smiles benevolently at him and shakes her head. "You'll be okay, Sam, and when you are, you can take charge again, but for the time being, we'll hand wave the paperwork and let Gene handle it."

"You can't! You cannot hand wave paperwork in 2006, that's just not done. And Gene --- he punched a suspect. He broke his nose."

"And I'll break your nose if you don't shut it. I'm doing this for you."

Sam makes a half-hearted flailing movement with his free arm and pouts.

"Histrionics over?" Gene asks. "Good. See you in a few hours. Get some kip."

He very nearly mirrors Maya's earlier action, but he gently grips Sam's good shoulder as an alternative, the warmth of Sam's skin a sensation he wasn't sure he'd ever get to experience again.

*

"So how did you two meet?"

"Look, I know you're a copper. You know I'm a copper. We don't have to interrogate one another."

"I'm not. I'm just curious."

Maya drives on the edge of reckless, winding the car around with speed and daring. She takes corners liberally and, for a while, Gene thinks a sadist might have a handle on his fate and he'll be sailing into a lamp-post.

"He came into my department and demanded my attention," Gene says eventually, carefully avoiding saying anything that doesn't sound like the truth.

"That sounds like Sam. And was it love at first sight?"

"You're a riot, you are, bouncy bra."

Maya stops her teasing, pulls into the station car park, and shuts off the engine. They clatter up the steps, an aeroplane soaring overhead muffling the voices of those nearby.

"Right, so we have a couple of informants who can tell us where Charles is staying," Maya says as they push through the front door. "Now, his relation to Quinton is this - he worked as Quinton's delivery boy. Would package up and send paintings to his various clients, usually by personal courier."

Gene taps his chin, leaning by the lift and looking down at Maya thoughtfully. "His sister said he didn't have any clients."

"Either she didn't know about them, or she was lying, because he was making a pretty penny. There's insubstantial, but convincing evidence that whatever was going on at that gallery was dodgy."

"I'm shocked and in awe."

Maya presses the button to go up. "Do you take anything seriously?"

"Try not to, it's bad for my digestion."

"Anyway, there's been suggestions of copies being bandied about."

"Of famous artworks?"

"Not too famous - no Van Gogh or Rembrandt. But yeah." Maya walks into the clean, sterile CID, a line in her forehead marring her otherwise attractive face. "The only reason I'm doing this is because I think you wanna do the best by Sam. And I get that.

"But you can't go around punching suspects, okay? No actual kicking in doors. This is real life. This isn't some vigilante flick, or Western or something. Appeals of self defence only get you so far."

"Self defence? Is that what Sammy-boy told you Rory Davies was?"

"Why? Would you tell me it was something else?"

Gene's lips twitch and he coughs to conceal his desperate urge to laugh. "No. I wouldn't tell you a thing."

Maya tenses her jaw. "This is seeming more and more like a bad idea."

"That's what Sam said."

"Yeah, well, he's not always wrong."

"He's not always right."

They leave it at that. Maya collects intel about what's been happening since she's been gone and announces to anyone who's listening that she and DCI Hunt are going on an expedition. Some tapping halts and a couple of heads look up, but there's not an overwhelming gush of interest and Gene concludes that he has ceased to be flavour of the week.

"You're not gonna get them helping?"

Maya shakes her head. "They're all working on other projects. As of yesterday evening there's been two other murders and a robbery. It's go, go, go."

"My team would be bending over, waiting for the spank."

"Why don't you call them, then, bring them in?" Maya asks, holding up her mobile.

Gene feigns nonchalance. "They're busy with their own cases." He looks at the metal boxes arranged on each desk and points to the closest. "How important would you say these are to the job?"

"Vital. But ever since we got upgraded, our database has trouble loading. I swear, the more patches they issue, the more difficult it becomes. What's your database like?"

"Sam is our database," Gene says.

"Really?"

It registers that this must sound odd, considering they're supposed to be working in different places entirely.

"He's like our database; stubborn, mouthy, particular, needs everything just so before it'll work."

Maya gives an amused smirk and signals that they're leaving.

*

Bruce Charles has a face like squashed Alsatian shit, ugly as sin. Gene feels he should have noticed that before, but he was too caught up in chasing after the git to give it much thought. Of course, Charles is predictable like _Corrie_ and attempts to escape again, wedging a lounge room between him and the two cops hell-bent on getting their own way.

Gene has the opportunity to kick in a door, but he waits for Maya to wave her hand in consent before he completes the action. It's courtesy more than anything, and the relish that he feels when his foot crashes against the wood is scotch in his blood.

"Charles, you scum, you'll be eating from a tube if you don't come quietly."

Maya opens her eyes wide. "Have you spent every weekend of the last twenty years watching _The Sweeney_ , or what?"

Gene swivels his head to glare at Maya quizzically. "The whatee?" He turns around, directing his harsh tones to the corner. He's seen blue denim peeking out from behind an armchair. "Hands where we can see them, Charles."

Charles moves, reluctantly, heels dragging against the carpet. Gene seizes him by the shoulders. Maya changes personality; a chameleon. She's suddenly hard, and brutal, and scary even to Gene, who's used to broads and fishwives.

"Bruce, you've been a bad boy, wanna tell us what you know?"

"I didn't kill him. Marc."

"Then who did you kill?" Gene asks, shark-like teeth and piercing green eyes.

"No one. Haven't killed nowt."

Maya interjects. "But you know who did? Kill Quinton?"

"Not exactly. I could tell you a motive."

Maya's cold and in charge. "I could make up any manner of motives. Love, lust, greed, revenge. I don't want a motive. I want the reason."

Gene's impressed. Sam always does know how to pick them.

"Marc was all about selling dodgy paintings, yeah?"

"We've heard that before."

"There was a massive scandal with one of the suppliers. Warnings, shattered windows. Marc got hit, badly, bashed up by a couple of thugs. His sister, Shania? Took great pleasure in it all."

Gene bites his lip, narrowing his eyes at Charles. "We've spoken with Shania Quinton. She made her happiness bright and shiny, but she didn't kill him."

"You're positive?" Maya asks, shifting her attention from Charles to Gene.

"As sure as Liz Frazer's tits are gorgeous."

Maya's mouth flattens and she gives a near-shudder. "You're a colourful man, Gene Hunt."

"And you're a colourful bird."

Maya goes rigid for a second, cocks her head, and then starts prodding Charles towards her Audi. "You're going to help our investigation and you're not going to complain, because if you don't give us something useful, we'll lock you up for obstruction."

They go to the station with quiet professionalism, Charles staying silent in the back.

Interrogation involves a tape recorder and some special glass. Gene supposes he shouldn't be overwhelmingly surprised. He does, however, miss Sam at this moment, and that makes him feel nice and pitiable, because it's only been two hours since he was keeping a vigil by his bedside. Still, he knows Sam in this environment. He's reliable, in his own way. And he wants answers, he burns for them. Why did Marc Quinton die? Who killed him? It's not just his quest for justice, in fact, probably less than ten percent is his quest for justice, because these streets are not his streets, despite the names. It's wanting to make sense of it all. Whether or not any sense will be made is neither here nor there.

"Bruce, you're not a regular witness. We usually offer those witnesses tea and biscuits, but you lucked out when you commenced a dangerous car chase that wounded one of our own."

"I what?" Charles asks, shock evident in every convulsion. Gene's nails cut into his palm as he stems the compulsion to smash him one. "Go to the gallery."

"I've been to the gallery," Maya says, exasperated.

"Go again. Shania's boyfriend Pete, butcher extraordinaire, has taken over. I mean, there's not much more I can tell you. That's all I know."

"Tell me about the warnings again."

*

The gallery's shut. No one's at Shania's. They wait for hours, before setting surveillance up and calling it a night. Gene wants to go to the hospital, but Maya softly reminds him visiting hours are over. He thinks he's going to collapse before he takes a step within the door of Sam's flat. Maya's given him her spare key, driven off. He'd been tempted to offer her a drink, but she'd staunched his proposition before he'd made it, talking about being glad she was finally going to be spending the evening with her fiancée.

It's him and four cream walls. Not what he'd call the most exciting or appetising of evenings. He switches the tv on, but some disturbingly pink show's playing, with a bunch of blokes talking about interior design. He tries to turn on the laptop, but there's a flashing light over an image of a battery that Gene supposes indicates that it's flat. Typical.

Gene sees his future spread out before him and it does not look promising.

There's a rattling and scraping sound from the front, so Gene rises from the sofa, drawing himself to his full height - no mean feat with the weight of exhaustion.

The door opens and Sam's standing there in an oversized grey shirt and baggy jeans, his arm in a cast and sling, his head still looking a mess, albeit sewn back together, and a scowl that could rival any child after a sherbet fountain.

"What're you doing here?" Gene asks, faking irritation and secretly overjoyed.

"You left me, alone," Sam says angrily, twisting his left hand in his loose t-shirt and coming across the threshold.

"You did the same to me, day before."

"I left you in a nice flat. With television. And easy-to-access porn. You left me in a hospital. I fucking hate hospitals."

Sam walks closer to the middle of the room, looking about himself with squirrel-like tics.

Gene rolls his eyes. "First of all, you're obsessed with porn. Second, stop being a melodramatic wimp."

"You're a fucking bastard."

"So many different ways to say 'I love you', yet Tyler chooses the one that involves grappling," Gene says to the air.

Sam goes still, the vein on his forehead popping once more, this time throbbing a lively flamenco. He ducks his head and swallows, his frown making him appear ten years older. He bounces on the balls of his feet, tense and restrained.

Gene lowers in pitch, insistent and forceful. "I was trying to get us back home."

"But what you've failed to notice, Gene, is that I've never once called 1973 home. You belong there. I don't." Sam sucks in a breath and his eyes are hollow when he stares back at Gene; he's tucked away every emotion. "I could pick up my life, here, easily. You saw me do it. It's routine. It's familiar. If I went back-"

Gene doesn't recognise his voice, deep and husky, as he interrupts. "What do you mean, 'if'?"

Sam continues, pretending he doesn't hear. "-It'd be for you."

"And what is here for you? Because, forgive me, Sam, if I'm missing something remarkable, but you're miserable here. I've not seen you so --- the only time I've ever seen you look this demoralised was when we fished Joni out of the canal. You wanna live in a place that makes you numb? What about Annie? What about Chris? Hell, what about Ray? What'd he do if he didn't have your tight jeans to glower at every ten minutes? He might even make Inspector, could you live with that?"

"Wouldn't have to, would I?" Sam stares blankly at the wall. "It's not about what I want. It's about what's right."

"Hate to break it to you after 37 years of life on earth, but no such thing exists," Gene yells, finally letting the anger creeping up to take hold. "The laws of time and space are anything but right. They're the other side of wrong. If this is about your mother, I think you need a little chat with Dr. Freud."

Sam half-shrugs, dejectedly. "This isn't about my mother."

"What is it, then? Is this about you being a scared little pussycat? Can you not take all Guv all the time?"

"And it isn't about us."

"I don't get you. I think I do. But then I find, no, there's more of a labyrinth in there than Edward Heath's bowels, spewing out more bullshit than the entire bovine nation."

"I was four in 1973."

"So what? I was four in 1934. Look at me now, haven't I aged well," Gene barks. "Do you want me to stay here with you, is that it? Where you can have all your fancy technogadgetry and procedure and league tables and concept maps and I can feel like an old dinosaur, just crawled over from the prehistoric era?"

Sam's on the edge of hysteria, now, face contorted. "No, that's my point."

"I still can't see it, it must not be sharp enough."

"You are so frustrating."

Gene edges forward, wanting to get their bodies into contact, because that speaks to Sam more than ten thousand words. "You love it. Maybe if you just said it, you'd feel better."

"You want me to say I love you, but if I did that, and you went back, and I stayed here…" Sam opens his mouth wide, his chest rising and falling.  
  
"I love you, Sam. Never thought I'd have the courage to say it, but by God, I'm stronger than you are."

Gene doesn't want to put Sam's body through any more wars than it's already been in, but he needs to touch him, so he gently presses his hand to Sam's lower back and leans in for a kiss. Sam doesn't resist. He arches into the movement, defiant, kissing Gene back with vigour.

"I love you," Sam says, like it's a test, then quieter, his eyes staring straight into Gene's, warm and accepting, "I love you."

"Good boy," Gene says, a small mocking smile on his lips. "Because I'm not letting you go."

There's an immobility eerily like resignation in Sam's stance and he nods, once.

*

"We go in guns blazing."

"I don't have a gun. I have a baton."

"Sammy-sweetie, I've seen your baton - hard as it may be, it might not do the job."

Sam moans, again, for what's possibly the fifth time that morning, though for differing reasons, and it's only six am. Gene didn't even know this mythical time existed past being the dead hour of an overnight binge.

"Let's work together, for God's sake. A true marriage of our respective skills."

"Marriage? I don't think we're quite up to that," Gene says, flippantly, before his face goes blank and he asks, "could we? I mean, is it…"

"Nope, you'll be pleased to know that 'fruity tutti's' can't get married now either," Sam replies, tone caustic and the set of his jaw displaying seething anger. "Civil partnerships, though. They're as close as we're gonna get, by the looks of things."

"By 'we', you mean?"

"Society in general. I'm not sure I could handle Gene Tyler."

Gene flicks his head back. "It'd be Sam bloody Hunt."

"Can we get back to, you know, reality?"

"I thought you said reality was just a state of mind?"

"Yeah, well, my state of mind is decidedly fucked at the moment."

Gene cradles his coffee and eyes his, as yet, untouched bacon butty. "What do you suggest?"

"Forget the crime, let's just shag all day."

"So you were being suggestive with that baton of yours."

Sam smoothes his fingers up his face and smiles, his nostrils dilating as he exhales slowly.

"We go back to the station, see what surveillance has turned up, see what's been done about that animal blood. Go to the gallery, make some noise… you know, the usual, tedious stuff you never get to see on primetime telly."

"Usual and tedious is about the long and the short of it. There's good reasons, Sam, that DCIs like us delegate."

Sam speaks with slow, sacred tones. "You called me DCI, my life is now complete."

"Your humour, it cuts me raw."

Gene had spent a long time thinking that telling Sam how he felt would cause a chasm to come between them, because it seemed too fairy-like, too weak, too close. But it's lifted a block he hadn't been aware of, and now he can look at Sam and say that he gets him. Not everything, there's still compartments that have keyholes no one could spy through, but he gets a large part of him and that's enough.

"Butcher," Gene says, after a flash of inspiration.

Sam stops digging into his grapefruit and snaps his head up. "What?"

"Charles said that Shania Quinton's boyfriend was a butcher. Animal blood."

Sam catches on. "Oh. Oh, that is great. You are great."

"I've been saying that for months, but do you listen?"

Gene, after much anticipation, gets to drive. Only, Sam's Jeep is well and truly wrecked and the car Maya provides is a no-nonsense unmarked run-about that goes at speeds Gene's veruca-infected snail could beat. Gene drives uncharacteristically safely, blaming the car, even though the true reason is that Sam looks like a rag doll and Gene doesn't have enough string to bind him back together should peril loom.

Shania Quinton is at the station, hurling obscenities like a fast bowler. Maya bats them away with disinterest. They watch from behind the two-way mirror.

"I didn't kill him, I've told you that, you two-faced whore."

"Did your boyfriend? Pete, is it? His name was conspicuously missing from the list you gave my esteemed colleagues, even though a little white ferret told me he's decided to take charge at the gallery. Also, didn't he used to work with animals? Cutting them up, perhaps?"

"Brucie, the shit-eater."

"Was he the only one who knew about your arrangement? No wonder you scared him senseless."

"You're a good actress, Shania, but we're discerning critics," Sam says, leaving Gene's side and stepping into the room.

"What happened to you? Become a human pin cushion? Oh wait, you'd have to be human, right?"

"A comedienne too, truly the world will be lost with you behind bars."

Shania slaps her palms against the table and shrieks, "But I didn't do anything."

"Conspiracy to murder? Accessory to murder at the very least? You did nothing, Shania, nothing that will help save yourself."

*

 

They go to the gallery, simply to see what all the fuss is about. Charles is there, fidgeting with some packing tape.

"You're here?" he asks, chewing on the inside of his lip. Gene doesn't quite recognise the tingling in his tummy button that insists something is amiss.

"Not for long," Sam assures him, blasé.

The artwork is hideous. Garish and cruel. No form of enlightenment or beauty amongst the canvas. Either that, or encrusted with sentimentality, exaggerated butterflies and rosy-cheeked cherubs. Gene bends his head this way and that, but can't see as to why anyone would want one version of any of the monstrosities, let alone several copies in existence.

Sam unveils a piece that they both recognise, a Monticelli, and Gene smiles when he recalls Maya's earlier remarks disclaiming a Van Gogh. He guesses she hasn't had art history shoved down her throat by an aspiring perfectionist of the palette.

"Wow," Sam says, reaching out in an impression of touching it.

"This is the worst copy I've ever seen."

"How d'you mean? It's perfect. The colours, the angles of the strokes..."

Gene sets his shoulders, tossing his head towards the canvas. "It's the original."

"You can't tell that just by looking at it. I mean, an expert could, but you sure as hell couldn't."

"Alright, how much d'you wanna bet?" Gene gives a blinding grin. "Think about it, Tyler. They didn't try to kill Marc before, even though, by all accounts, he was an obnoxious tosser. No, they killed him when they found out he and Bruce were scamming them even further than they'd predicted. Stolen paintings being reproduced ad nauseum, because the originals never did get to their prospective buyers."

Sam looks at the painting and then back at Gene. He picks up his radio and tells uniform to keep tabs on Charles. He drums his fingers against his leg. "How did you know?"

"My name and the word genius don't start the same for no reason."

"No, really, how did you know? What was it about the painting that pinged on the gregarious Guv's radar?"

"You're a daft div sometimes, you do know that, don't you? It wasn't the painting. It was all Charles. I deal in people, Sam, in body language and figures of speech. He were still twitchy, had something to hide. What was he hiding? The logical conclusion had to be something to do with the paintings, right? And I should not be having to explain this to you in fine detail."

"Did you just say, 'logical conclusion'? You have logical conclusions?"

"Oh, I do. How about you? Sort this one out. If my fist travels towards your face, what'll happen?"

"I'll block it, twist your arm around, and give you a good kicking."

"I'd like to see you try, my little one-armed bandito."

"Go on then."

Gene's going to sling his fist forward, but he catches Sam by the back of the head and crushes his lips with a kiss. He seeks Sam's tongue, the wet and warmth of his mouth enticing and comforting all at once. Sam clutches at his hair and pushes Gene back against the wall, taking control. Gene murmurs, over and over, until the many little sounds combine into one long sound. And Gene forgets about 2006 for a minute, maybe more, as Sam takes him somewhere else, somewhere he wants to be.

*

Maya makes a big song and dance thanking Gene for his involvement. He accepts the scotch and tucks it away somewhere safe to consume at a later date. Sam suggests they revisit his flat, a proposal that has Gene hoping for rumpy pumpy, but it doesn't seem that way from Sam's demeanour.

"I wanna see my mother," Sam says, almost as if he's asking permission.

"Want me to come along?"

Sam doesn't shake his head all the way, but his intention is clear. Gene waits in the flat for three hours, finally making use of Sam's laptop, reading through the detailed instructions Sam left him. He gets up to step number eleven part n), typing into something called 'Google'. He tries his name, but scientific stuff comes up, boring as batshit. 'Sam Tyler' yields first and foremost a photographer's page, a fan of bluegrass music. And 'porn' has over 138,000,000 results, none of them remotely titillating, as far as Gene can see.

Sam returns with red-rimmed eyes and pale skin.

"Well, she now thinks I need severe psychiatric help."

Gene reels back on the sofa. "You didn't try and tell her?"

"No. Just sobbed every time she spoke."

"Pansy."

"Thanks."

They decide upon an outing to the local pub to celebrate their victory. It would be okay, but the place is all slick wood and blokes watching telly. The atmosphere lacks warmth and camaraderie. Football's on most screens - Manchester United, so Gene turns away and gazes at the only one that's showing the evening bulletin.

"Is this the world we fought for?" Gene asks, suddenly. He stares into the pint by his hand. "I was fighting against this kind of bollocks as part of my National Service. And now, decades later, it's still on the news. Different people, same bloodshed."

Sam frowns, diverts his concentration to the display that proclaims 'seven dead in suicide bombing'. He lifts his beer to his lips. "Where were you?"

"Palestine. Most of the time it were pretty quiet, but once in a while the aggression'd flare up and we'd be there to keep the peace. Never felt like it, peace keeping. Always felt like war - conflict and ruined lives. Not what I'd hoped for when the tasty uniformed tart'd asked me to drop my trousers and cough." Gene pauses. "I've never told anyone that before."

"I'm sorry," Sam says. Gene doesn't understand his expression. "I wish I could say it's all over, we got through it, thanks to the bravery of those who came before, but I'd be lying. You're right, different people, same bloodshed. We don't learn."

Gene sighs deeply, finishing the last of a beer that hasn't changed, despite thirty-three years of global machinations. "I guess we can only hope to do something worthwhile for our current situation. Sod the future, what about today?"

Gene doesn't add the auxiliary thought that this is the future, that his today is yesterday. Sam seems to pick up on the unspoken words, because he's morose and quiet for the rest of the evening, until it gets to a point where they both start shrugging on their coats to go back to Sam's flat.

Outside in the cooling dark, sirens blare from afar, and there's the stench of rotting leaves. The little man at the pedestrian crossing flashes green and they start to walk across the road, but a screech of tyres arrests Gene's attention and he goes wide-eyed before everything goes black.

*

"Sam?"

"Gene?"

"If this is 1873, or 2206, or anything other than what's to be my favourite year ever, I shall have your guts for garters."

"How many times do I have to tell you I didn't do anything?"

Gene opens his eyes and looks up at a blue, bright sky. He checks his body for cuts and bruises and finds none. He launches himself upright and looks around the car park of his station. Sam's still on the ground, fitted leather, too-tight jeans and curious expression.

"Back home?" Sam asks.

"Back home," Gene asserts. He goes to help Sam up, then thinks better of it, and starts walking in the direction of his Cortina. "I won our little fight," he calls over his shoulder. "You're the one slung over the tabletop."

"You so did not," Sam shouts back. "I had you begging for mercy."

"Like hell you did. My mind's made up, Tyler. I've been to hell and back for you."

"And I haven't?"

Gene spins on his loafers, crossing his arms. "Okay, compromise - we take turns, but I go first."

"I can deal with that. Just about."

"Great, because like with most things, you've got no choice."

"There's always choices, Guv."

Gene doesn't let himself look at Sam's expression. He slots his key into his car door and relishes the metal against metal, knowing soon he'll be relishing skin against skin. He breathes a deep sigh of relief that everything's in its right place.


End file.
